Carl Albano, RHS Top 100 Teacher of the 20th Century

Many thanks to Chris Stella, class of 1973, for this moving tribute to 20th Century RHS Teacher, Carl Albano. It is admittedly long for a blog, but worth the time to read.

As a gentle reminder, one of the goals of this blog is to offer praise for individuals who positively influenced people's lives in the 1960s and 70s in Ridgewood, NJ.  Please feel free to forward me your ideas. I am trying to establish a site which acknowledges the contributions of the 100 Best Teachers in the Ridgewood Public School system over the last 100 years. It is a lofty ambition, but I am not above making the effort with the assistance of people who read this blog. Here is the first entry in what I hope is a continuing series of long overdue expressions of gratitude to the people who made us what we are today.

Well, just looking at him, he didn’t quite fit the picture of the high-impact RHS teacher, that is for sure. He had this near spherical head and face, stuck on an ovoid body. His brown hair was slicked straight back, held in position by some sort of lustrous substance, distinctly unfashionable among the young of Ridgewood in 1972.

He taught Health, and Driver Ed, but not Physical Ed. And, his presence wasn’t like any of the RHS pedagogue stars: He didn’t have the tweedy, genial sense of  learned excellence suggested by a Harry Ahearn, or the muscular, rigorous intellectualism of a Milo Okkema. Both the subject matter, and teacher might have seemed a bit, well, shall we say, Less Academic.

To complete the picture, his brother was one of those show wrestlers, Lou Albano, later a huge WWF star as Captain Lou Albano. Our teacher did not make TOO big a deal of this, though he was often willing to make predictions on the results of his brother’s bouts. These predictions were accurate to a degree not suggested possible by statistical variability.

Since my time with him in the classroom and automobile, where he taught me Health and how to drive a car, I have come to see him as a true genius.
He made people who were not in the habit of thinking, think. “Okay, today, we’re going to talk about Drugs”. Certain facts would follow. Then, he would pick a student carefully, approach that student, and pull a small clear glass bottle with a black screw-top out of his valise. Inside the bottle was a few ounces of a clear, but obscurely and unusually colored liquid.

“Frank, “Mr. Albano would genially say to the student he had picked, “Please unscrew the cap, and swallow the liquid.”

“Oh, come on, it will be fine. I promise. “ Mr. Albano would say.

“No”, Frank would again say.

At this point Frank’s so-called buddies would begin to egg him on, urging him to drink the liquid, in a way that severely suggested that they were a lot more interested in the evolving spectacle, than in Frank’s well-being.

“Frank. This won’t hurt you. I promise. It’s Okay”, Albano would continue.

“I’m not drinkin’ that shit !!!“


(Laughter.)

Albano would smile and ask, “Why not?”

Desperate, Frank would say, “’Cause I don’t what kinda shit’s in there !!”


(More laughter.)


Albano would take a step back, put the bottle back in the valise, and smile again.

“Frank. I’m your teacher. You know me. It is my job to see that you are safe here, and that no harm comes to you while you are in school. I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I don’t. After all, a good lawyer can make black seem like white, right?”

Albano would then continue, in a sensible and kind way:

“Frank, if you aren’t willing to take this stuff into your body when I say it is okay and your friends are here, why would you be willing to take other stuff given to you by other people who you DON’T know, and who don’t care about you AT ALL?”

Well, this seemed clever in real time, but there was a whole less obvious layer of teacherly smarts at work here, which only recently occurred to me. Albano had picked his mark well. There were florid risk-takers in the class who would have called Albano’s bluff instantaneously, and quaffed the mysterious liquid in a gulp.

But, although “Frank” tried to play the role of the uncooperative rebel, he was actually a nervous wannabe. He was someone on the periphery, someone who Albano knew would perform as desired and refuse to drink the Kool-Aid, and refuse in a squeamish way, either out of general anxiety, or latent good sense, hard to say which.

The first year of Health was taught in an all-male class of over fifty students, as high anxiety, high-potential-for-disruptive-behavior stuff was presented, topic after topic.

Albano controlled the class effortlessly:

“Hey you, yes, you in the back talking. Stand up. What’s ya name, I don’t know ya name, what is it?”

Duh, Uh,…Stella.

“Oh. Very nice. Stella. Italian, no? Italian, yes, Stella?”

Duh, Uh, yeah, Italian.


(Laughter)


“Oh, Stella, Italian, very nice, very very nice.

“Now, Stella: SHUT YA MOUTH, SHUT YA MOUTH, STELLA.”

“Now, sit down, Stella.”

(Laughter, Cascading.)


And the classroom discussion of the picture of the syphilitic genital chancre would go on:

“Now, like you can see it really looks like bad news, but funny thing is, it doesn’t hurt too bad at all. But if you see it, you got to go see the doctor, because if you don’t get this taken care of it can ruin the rest of your life. But, the medicine, it isn’t too bad, so if this happens, you have to go to the doctor.”

Again, brilliant, visceral, teacherly smarts. He could have yelled, screamed, tossed people out, or just given up, we had seen all of that, elsewhere. But, his technique was radically different. He seemed to be saying:

“Okay Mister Cut-Up, I know your type, maybe I was one myself, maybe I still am, a bit. I know you want attention, so I’m going to let you have some. I’m going to let you be half of my comedy act, for a few seconds. People will get a kick out of this, I guarantee it. But then you have to sit down and cooperate, because I have a lot of stuff important to your well-being that you need to know.”

Senior Year Health Class, time for the discussion of Abortion. Some neutrally presented facts were described, followed by a general class discussion on the topic, with Albano as moderator:

“Now, when we talk, you can say anything you want about abortion, but I’m not going to tell you what I believe, unless you ask, at the end.” In the discussion that followed, Albano skillfully brought out all the issues from the students themselves, his own views remaining opaque. And at the end of the class, someone did ask him what he thought on the topic. And Mr. Albano said, again with an affable smile,  “Oh, well, I am a really strict Catholic, and so, I don’t believe in abortion under any circumstances. Now, I really love my wife, if her life was ever in danger, I don’t know; but, for me, abortion is not okay.”

I thought his ability to be respectful of everyone’s opinion was wonderful, as was the straightforward and persuasive statement of his own faith, as well as the acknowledgment of his own humanity, and potential for weakness.

I was lucky enough to have him for Driver Ed, Practical Portion, in a real Auto, behind the wheel.

“We start in the Graydon Parking lot, but don’t put me into the Ho-Ho-Kus Brook, please.“

During my final evaluation drive, I was in the driver’s seat, he in the passenger seat. The Driver Ed car was new, with an automatic transmission. The only modification was an auxiliary brake pedal on Albano’s side. I tooled tentatively about the Village of Ridgewood.

“The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella. Pretty good. Who you got for your other classes?”

I told him I had Mr. Okkema for History. “Oh, he’s a very, very smart man, one of the best! You’re really lucky, Stella.” This was all true, but I wasn’t so sure that the academic stars at RHS would return such compliments to Albano.

The cut-up in his Health class when surrounded by other kids was shy and awkward with him, when one on one, just us in the Driver Ed car. I tried to steer the conversation to general topics. I told him that on weekends, I liked to go hiking and camping with friends. Did he ever do this sort of thing?

Again, the bemused but transparent warm tone. “Oh, no, never!! When I go away, I gotta be attended to, hand and foot!’ A bemused quarter turn of the head, another bemused smile, his rotund frame turned a bit, “Look at me Stella, hand and foot!”
“The Driving looks pretty good, Stella.”

I relaxed a bit. It was time to return to the RHS parking lot. At the T–intersection of Oak Street and Linwood Avenue, there was, and still is, a red flashing blinker, where the plan was for me to turn right, back towards the school.

I came to a full stop, as was proper before making the right turn at the T-intersection with the flashing red light. I looked right, all clear. I did not look left. I pushed the accelerator down with my foot.

The engine growled harshly, as if being subjected to some unusual load. The car did not move, even an inch. I heard Mr. Albano speak the single word “No”, in a factual, stressless and non-judgmental tone.

Then, I looked left. There was a large panel truck speeding towards us, real close. Had Albano not had his foot on the auxiliary brake, our car would have entered the intersection. This truck would have impacted the driver side of the RHS Driver Ed Auto, which at that particular point in its history, happened to contain, me.

“The Driving. The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella, but ya gotta look both left and right at the flashing red lights, Stella. Now, let’s get back to the school.”

Well, I’m not SURE he saved my life, but I AM sure he gets credit, yet again, for knowing his student. No doubt there were kids who after such an event needed to be chewed out, flunked out, or both, but he knew that I was not one of them. He knew that in my heart of hearts I wanted to please him, and he also knew that if he was nice to me after I had made such a terrible mistake, I would want to please him even more, and would therefore be more careful in the future.

All of this has come to pass, my subsequent behavior at T-intersections has been exemplary.


II.
About seven years later, I had another experience with him.

I was halfway through Med School, in New York City. It was August, and the re-radiated infrared heat from the City buildings had become intolerable. The plan was for me and my girlfriend to drive across the George Washington Bridge, and use my parents continued residence in Ridgewood to somehow get into Graydon Pool. The plan was completely successful, the only surprise being, seeing Mr. Albano bobbing stresslessly in the shallow waters of Graydon.

I introduced myself, and my friend, to him. Maybe he remembered me, maybe he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter, the even-toned good nature would have been there, either way.

I told him eagerly how much I had enjoyed his influence, but I don’t remember reminding him of the RHS Driver Ed auto incident.

I also told him that I was making a career out of health care. There might have been a bit of less innocent, Darth Vaderish, Now-I-am-the-Master stuff in this part of the conversation, on my part.

More Stressless Graydon Bobbing on the part of my old RHS Health teacher Mr. Albano. The body that I had always thought of as chubby, was in fact quite muscular.

He showed great and obvious pleasure in the direction my professional life had taken. A period of extended, pleasant conversation followed.

Then he said something else that I won’t forget. He had that bemused, familiar, regretless tone.

“Stella, you know, I majored in Biology and also did very well, and I applied to Medical School too, and I could have gone.”

“But, our family, it was really big, and teaching was a way I could make pretty good money right away, to help out.”

“And my teaching, it looked pretty good, so that’s what I did.”

Well, hearing that, I felt the same way as I had felt after he had saved me from Something Really Bad in the Driver Ed auto. His words had the same strong but honest and sensible character that it had on that important day in the car, seven years prior. Once again, he was able to gracefully stake out his own moral position, making my own mistake clear in a firm but gentle way, a way that only made me like him and respect him, even more.

I am now an academic sort of person, and Carl Albano taught subjects thought of as non-academic, at least while I was a student at Ridgewood High School. But as you can see, I now think he was among the best teachers I’ve known, and a great deal of his teaching and deportment remains influential for me.

Ham Radios in Ridgewood (circa 1960-70)

This was sent by Chris Stella. class of 1973.

“Ham” Radio, in Ridgewood

“Now, listen my Children, and you shall hear
Of when Ne’er a Cell phone was raised to an ear
If you wanted
Your words to project
It was the land-line,
Or an epistle,
Upon which to carefully reflect.”

--C.S., with apologies to Longfellow

Actually, there was one other method that a few of us knew about. It was called
Amateur Radio. Those of us who were licensed to do this, could project their
voice and signal all over the country, and world. The transmitter equipment
needed to do so was often home built from a “Heathkit”. If you couldn’t afford
the relatively safe Heath Power Pack, then the parts needed to construct an
(extremely dangerous) 1000 volt supply that allowed the development of the 200
watt signal needed to keep your set competitive, could be liberated from an older,
nonfunctional obsolete television set.

This in turn could often be had for the asking from a TV Repair shop, such as
Terhune’s, located north of Ridgewood. Technical advice, general mentoring, and license proctoring was provided by my wonderful Electronics Teacher at RHS, Mr. John Keeley. He helped me
send away to the FCC to get the license forms, and he gently administered the
Government test, and within a few weeks I was duly licensed as Amateur Radio Station WN2.

There were many hundreds of these stations scattered through Ridgewood and
the surrounding towns. The most elaborate ones could be identified by these
huge Yagi “Beam” antennas, suspended over residential roofs, much to the
detriment of neighborly relations, local television reception, and the property
value of adjacent real estate parcels.

I had nothing like this. A Heathkit HW-101 transceiver in Kit Form, cost $259.
A Saturday of work at The Ridgewood Auto Wash yielded $20, with the “tips”
exactly counterbalancing the “Social Security”, an unanticipated deduction which
I was inaccurately told would be returned to me at the time of my Retirement.
Accoringly, exactly 14 weeks later I had my transceiver soldered and assembled,
and it worked very well after I designed and constructed the potentially death-
dealing 1000 volt supply mentioned above. My antenna was a simple wire
precisely tuned to 7.100 megahertz, it was slung between two oak trees outside
of my bedroom window. A smaller, 21.200 megahertz wire was suspended from
the eaves of our house.

Using this simple setup, I “worked” stations routinely all over America.
Whatever educational value I gained from doing this was at least partially
negated by the knowledge that the best time to communicate with Europe with
my little Heathkit was at about 10:00 a.m., Eastern Time. Thus, a “stomachache
health emergency” had to be declared, when openings to Europe were expected,
if I was to participate. My Gastrointestinal health during mr RHS years, was
actually a lot better than my parents knew.

The most wonderful thing of all about this hobby was, the knowledge that when
you pressed your Morse Code Key, your signal, through the obscure action-
at – a-distance of Electromagnetic waves, was inducing discernable electrical
information in every metallic object in the Eastern United States, and Beyond.
This was a wonderful mystery, that you could affect the world, in this way.
I still have the Heathkit HW-101 Transceiver that I built as a Sophomore at RHS,
and I still use it. But, it is hard to find a younger person on the air. A cell phone
call is also at least Semi-Amateur Radio, though few see fit to dwell on the
miraculous things that are occurring, when you put that tiny device to your ear.

Summer Rains

I watched a summer rain today and recalled how these downpours used to fill up the outfield at Willard School during the dry months of summer. The outfield of the big baseball diamond had patches of grass and some areas where no grass would grow because of the foot traffic from school children. A summer rain would create shallow puddles as there was no drainage system, other than the parched grass and weeds. These puddles made playing the outfield a comic ballet at best and treacherous sometimes to say the least. I was a pitcher and could only empathize with my teammates who had to play in the muck and mire.

It's comforting to me now that because of The Internet and sites like FaceBook I am now in touch with most of the summer softball team I played with during the Summer of 1973. They are a joy to remember because for two years we were undefeated. They would all understand very clearly what I say about the old outfield at Willard. It was literally "creekmud" at times for the outfielders like my brother Don, who patrolled Center Field and was credited with the final out of our 2nd consecutive Championship season.

Statistics and headlines were not a part of our games in those days. If a couple dozen people showed up to  watch we felt honored. I compare this to the current scene where RHS Football games are filmed and broadcast on Cable Television. Our games remain only in our memories, and thank goodness a mere summer rain can make me reflect upon those games, which were free of secondary complications like how handsome we would appear on TV. This is not to say our field would not have been telegenic, despite the patches of grass in the outfield. Before the home games at Willard, during our undefeated Championship reign (14-0) in 1972-73, we would lime the base paths, rake the infield, and plant the American flag in deep center field. This all took hours of effort which only made the victories that much more sweet. I have no regrets that no pictures exist of this time because I saw it all again today in my mind after the summer rain had stopped and the sun began to shine.

Dr. Armand Stella DDS

Chris Stella of the RHS class of 1973 was kind enough to send this photo of his Dad along with some history about my old orthodontist. "He was quite well known in Ridgewood, and because his practice only involved Orthodontics, essentially all of his patients were young people." Hopefully Chris will send more photos and stories.


"Here is a picture of my Dad, Armand Stella, DDS, who you tell me was your orthodontist. For many years he was one of only two orthodontists in town, the other being Dr. Mario Ferraro. Quite a few Ridgewood kids sported his "appliances", as they were properly and ALWAYS called, in our house.

I took this photograph of him myself in our backyard, using an old YashicaMat roll film camera. He was about 75 years old here, and it captures his nature quite well, I think. He died in 2003, of an aggressive dementia, but was active and athletic and a good tennis player at Upper Ridgewood until only about two years prior to his passing."

Running Through Sprinklers

Before swimming pools became a ubiquitous part of the landscape, and on days we didn't go to Graydon Pool, we often cooled ourselves on a hot day by simply running through and around a portable lawn sprinkler. There were mostly two types in those days, before automated lawn irrigation systems sent the manual kinds to the back of the garage or the garbage can. There was the oscillating sprinkler that featured an oscillating spray bar which evenly douses a rectangular area.

There was also the spike which shot water in a circle.

In the case of both of these stalwarts of the irrigation industry the the initial intent was to get wet slowly by dodging the direct spray when it came your way. Eventually we would tire of this running around and simply let either a wave or a direct blast cool us off.

We also used to drink from the hose which was connected to the sprinklers, without a thought in the world as to the quality of the water. Lucky for us in Ridgewood this wasn't an issue but I would be hard pressed to want to do the same today. The bottled water industry has done its work too well and I either drink from plastic or from a filtered tap. I've also been scared away from water fountains, both inside and outside varieties. Its funny to think we used to line up as kids to drink at these fountains, and to no doubt share germs good and bad with one another.

Such pleasures as I am describing make me wonder at what point they lost their appeal and became work instead of a form of play. If I had to guess the moment, it probably occurred the first time I was asked to move one of the sprinklers in our yard by one of my parents. Play usually happens when no force exists to urge you to do something. Work is comprised of those activities you are being directed to do. Even the ones you once did gladly to cool your heals, and to hear yourself and your friends squeal in delight at the first drops of water as they grazed your sun baked bodies.

Ridgewood's 4th of July Parade

There are plenty of amazing aspects I can reflect upon when thinking about a 4th of July in Ridgewood. First of all, as the chairs in the photo readily point out, people are very eager to see the parade and pick their spot days in advance. This is a time honored tradition which is respected by all. Once you put your chairs down they cannot be moved by anyone else. It would be hard to find another town in any era which follows the same protocol as flawlessly as Ridgewood.

Then there is the parade itself with a myriad of marching bands, floats, and cars filled with dignitaries. My favorite float is the one they create for the RHS graduating seniors, allowing them one last hurrah, in front of family and friends, before their summer activities and plans for the following autumn must commence in earnest.

Next comes a leisurely day spent in close proximity to BBQs and swimming pools while everyone awaits the fireworks at the end of the day. You would really have to work at it to not have a grand time, especially when the weather cooperates. You will also likely have as part of your day a serendipitous meeting or two with old friends, who showed up in Ridgewood for the same reason which you did: to celebrate the 4th of July!

Have a safe and happy 4th of July.

Fathers and Daughters

Reprinted from http://watchingthegame.typepad.com/my-blog/
by Judy Van Sickle Johnson

"It's not even a complete sentence.   No command or question, no declarative statement, no imperative verb, no main verb at all.   Just a phrase with an -ing participle (maybe a gerund) which indicates some type of action ongoing between two select people.

Fathers playing catch with sons:  the lovely, familiar phrase may not be a complete sentence, but perhaps that's one reason why the words resonate poignantly for so many.

"Everybody that plays major league baseball, I promise you, had a dad that played catch with him."  That's  what Don Nava had to say last Saturday at Fenway Park after watching his son's first major-league at bat:  a grand slam delivered by 27-year-old rookie Daniel Nava on an 0-0 count.   What an amazing way to break into the big leagues after an unpromising eight-year journey; what an important moment for father and son.

My dad played catch with my brother almost every single day at lunchtime in a bygone era when kids walked home from school for their midday meal, then returned to their classrooms an hour later.  Kind of like Jem and Scout and Atticus Finch.  Like Atticus with his children, my dad made it his business to join my brother for a sit-down lunch in our small kitchen, and that quick lunch was usually followed by an unhurried game of catch in the front yard. 

The only boy in our family following three sisters, my brother went on to become an outstanding player in our town's youth league.   One spring weekend I rode a Greyhound bus home from college  just to see him pitch.  Working efficiently and striking out almost every batter in the lineup, my kid brother threw a complete game that Saturday afternoon.  Mowed them all down with blazing fastballs and pinpoint control.  He was just nine or ten years old at the time, but something about his consistency and confidence on a hill of dirt made him seem much older.  I had left home, and my youngest sibling had grown up overnight.

My dad didn't play catch with me very often.

I never really coveted or envied the baseball times that my brother enjoyed with our dad, however.  Truth be told, I didn't particularly want to play catch with my father.  There was something else I wanted even more.

I just wanted to watch the game with him - wanted to watch baseball every single night.

There we sat, just my dad and I out on the screened porch, gliding side by side in the soft breeze of a sultry July evening, listening to Ralph Kiner, Lindsay Nelson, and Bob Murphy, and watching the New York Mets.  Together we enjoyed the primitive, grainy images that brought baseball to life on a small black-and-white RCA television topped with skinny rabbit ears.

It's a miracle that we chose the Mets in 1963, but that's what we did.  A team of losers  (51-111) felt like a win to me, because I had just fallen in love with baseball, and I loved every single part of it.

When my father came home from work, the game began to assert itself as language, and that is how baseball felt most real to me.  Its magical sounds, metaphors and idioms, syntax and rhythm,  its diction both poetical and crude became integral pieces of our evening conversation, a comfortable mode of speech and thought, a language that I loved.  While learning to speak English in increasingly complex ways in grades three and four, I simultaneously acquired the splendid vocabulary of baseball, as if it were an important part of the curriculum.  The game felt like something basic and essential - as normal, natural, and necessary as speech itself. 

Baseball took shape for me as language not as sport, partly because the man who nurtured my early love of the game was a Protestant minister.  Using few words and allowing for long periods of silence, he taught me baseball, both its fundamentals and its poetry.  In my mind's ear, an amazing vocabulary became inseparably entwined with familiar Biblical passages, both deeply embedded in my young psyche, and both becoming an essential part of who I am:  "3-2 count,"  Love is patient and kind,   "in the cellar,"  my rock and my Redeemer,  "6-4-3 double play."    And the Word was made flesh ... and dwelt among us,  full of love and peace. 

Many years have passed since those summer days and nights, but I can still hear the ever-modulating commentary, the sweet sounds of a televised broadcast, a soft breeze and buzzing in the trees, the gentle words of my father out on the screened porch once upon a quiet New Jersey evening.   I was a lucky girl, because when hearing my dad's voice and when listening to the comforting music of a play-by-play on summer evenings, I knew for certain that I was safe and deeply loved.

I have always associated baseball with happiness and love.   Thank you, Dad."

Remembering RHS Graduation 33 Years Later

It was a beautiful day and we graduates were looking grand in our long white dresses and a bouquet of red roses for the ladies, and white tuxedos for the guys. I'm told it was a rather unique way to dress in that day and age for high school graduates, and remains so to this day.

I don't remember any of the speeches or words of praise which were heaped upon us, nobody does and it probably is just as well. All the words about the life before us, the places we will visit and the things we will do truly must be done by each of us, that is, nobody can do it for you.

No amount of dire warnings or sophisticated advice is going to be heeded on an RHS Graduation day. Maybe some small part will be reflected upon much later in life, but for the most part it is all lost in the pageantry and knowledge that people who have for a long time been a significant part of our lives will be no longer. We will all make the promises to keep in touch and write addresses in one anothers Yearbooks but in the end we all know these are promises we are not intending to keep. Maybe we shouldn't try but we do in an attempt to be true to this high school self, which is quickly being transformed into an adult by an age old ritual which begins on the football field in the afternoon in front of family and friends, and ends sometime the next day after a visit to the Jersey shore.

I like the fact the entire ceremony is larger than life and gives everyone a chance to remember at least one part of it for the rest of their lives. Whether it is the country club dinner, the party at BF in the middle of the night, or the early morning swim at Graydon, there is more than enough going on that each one of us can call some small part of it uniquely our own.

Congratulations to today's RHS graduates! May your experience today be pleasurable and fill you with memories which will bring a smile to your face for a long time to come.

Ted Gehrig and Family

RHS 1980 Reunion Update

30th HS Reunion
Saturday, August 7, 2010 R

Ramsey Golf and Country Club

Deadline to Purchase Tickets is June 30th...get your tickets today!

http://rhs80reunion.com/

Tickets can be purchased online via Paypal or by using a credit card  $75 each.

RHS 1970 Reunion Update

The 40th Reunion is the weekend of Oct 8th 2010


May 19th 2010
According to the class of 1970 Reunion Team: RHS 1970 40th Reunion

Things are heating up. We sent an email last week to all 268 of you for whom we have email addresses. If you did not receive it, let Irene Nagy know (gardendesign@bellsouth.net). The email created a stir of activity. 80 classmates have RSVP’d as coming. Newcomers include: Jim Stroker, Eric Scofield, Peter Rita (coming all the way from Japan), Kathleen Keating, Andy Rork, Barbara Hall, Gloria Thornton, Kathy Lauerman, and Cleveland Marsh. Susan Egerton has been found in Tenn, and is off the “missing” list. The Thompson triplets have been located (great to find them). We are sending postcards to the 451 classmates for whom we have street addresses by not emails. We are now too big for the Elks Club on Fri night Oct 8 (a good problem). We are looking for a bigger place.

Apr 6...Up to 73 classmates have RSVP'd as coming. In the last month the following have declared: Bev Florance, Christine Nienaber, Patti Staehle, Marsha Golla, Virginia Zabrinski, Denise Durvette, Kathy Baker, Susan Main. Our first teacher has RSVP'd (Don MacKay). Sandy Hawley has been found in eastern PA. This sounds weird but hopeful: we have word that Christine Armstrong is not dead (pls contact us if you have info).

In April we will do a second emailing and a second post card mailing (if we don't have email address). So look for that.

Mar 6...Blogs for each Elementary School: Classmate Judy Schoneman has created a blog for Willard School classmates http://willard64.blogspot.com/. It has been so successful that we will create a blog for each Elementary School, and ask you to send photos and re-connect. We will let you know more about this.

Mar 3...Hits on reunion web site tops 1400

Mar 1...Lots going on. We continue to track down classmates, process is arduous but rewarding. Have located 4 in the last 3 weeks. Following have signed up for the reunion: Debbie Frey, Mike Augello, Bill Tobey, Jim O'Brien, Carlton Frost. Number of classmates attending now 64, total attendees over 100.

Feb 11...Anne Adams replies from Vermont that she will attend. Number of classmates attending is now 59.
Feb 9...Donna Nunley checks in from Houston. Plans to attend.
Feb 8...We updated the "Missing Grads" and the "In Memoriam" pages. Good news/Bad news: 4 classmates off the missing list...1 added to the memoriam list.
Feb 7...Got our 1,000th hit on the web site.
Feb 6...Dave Smith contacts Stan Brown. Stan RSVP's
Feb 5...Tracked down Dave Smith in Tennessee. Dave is amazed we found him. Will attend.
Feb 4...Marcia Field checks in from Columbus, OH. Plans to attend.

Pets Of Our Youth

We had the usual assortment of pets growing up. Dogs (Penny, Linda, Megan, Rover, TC) were fixtures in my life from the age of 7, and we had numerous cats (JP, Pepper and JP), one snake (no name) who escaped in the basement and we never saw again, and two gold fish (Molly and Alison).

Everyone in our family doted on the animals and when they were sick we all felt it. Animals tunnel their way into your heart and never leave your memory. It truly is hard for me to imagine living without them. The older I grow the more I understand how short the time they have with you, and that you must consciously enjoy their short stays on this planet. Maybe one day we meet again but I prefer to give my dog an extra hug just in case.

My current dog, Angus, named for the legendary butler from Upstairs Downstairs (Angus Hudson) is our pride and joy. He without fail at around 4:00 AM will cuddle up next to me with his head on my pillow for an hour of priceless sleeping time together. Being that he is a creature of routine, around 5:00 AM or so he will jump of our bed and go to his own bed for the rest of his sleep. When he next wakes up I know that it's time for the usual routine of a walk and some breakfast. He keeps us going with his persistent desires to have things his way, and we usually accommodate.  It's the the least we can do for a creature with such a short life span who gives so much and asks only that things are predictable and timely. He acts much the same as his namesake at 165 Eaton Place and we usually fall in line when the demands are in keeping with the standards he no doubt he believes he is trying to keep up.

Childhood Routines

Every family has its own unique routines. These standardized processes enable us all to know who should do what, when, in what order and how often. For example, the easiest childhood routine for me to remember involves waking up and going downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. My mother was always there to greet me, no matter how badly she might have felt. The Stay-At-Home Mom was a common institution during my childhood and the ladies took their roles very seriously. Part of my Mom's routine was to see us all off to school, and my Dad to work in NYC, with some food in our stomachs, and maybe a ride to the train station or school if the weather was particularly unpleasant outside.

I can recall the classic breakfast foods for us kids from the 1960s and 70s very clearly. There were Pop Tarts; I favored the blueberry variety made by Kelloggs. There were many imitators, and some varieties which included frosting, but nothing quite hit the spot for me like the tartness of the blueberry ones. Maybe because these are how New Jersey blueberries usually taste every June when they hit the market in their season to shine. In terms of cereal, we usually had Post Grapenuts as well as Captain Crunch. The latter had prizes in the boxes and more toys you could send away for if you saved the box tops. Grapenuts never stooped to such levels and simply stated on the box that this cereal was good for you all on its own. We kids would usually make short work of the Grapenuts claim that it was good for you by adding enough sugar to bring it into the same league of desired sweetness as a Captain Crunch style cereal.

This is not to say there weren't things my mother offered which were less sugar laden. I can recall the introduction of Kiwifruit in the early 1970s and how terrible the skin tasted but the fruit inside was delicious and extremely exotic for that time period. We also consumed a tremendous number of oranges and grapefruits. To this day I can't eat a grapefruit for love or money because of all the yellow ones I ate as a child. This sounds funny to people who know me as a "Foodie" who prides himself on having a diverse pallet. Oranges I am less put off by but usually consume them only in juice.

On the weekends my Mom would usually go all out and make us waffles or pancakes, with bacon or sausage. A goodly amount of Vermont syrup would accompany these offerings so as we wouldn't miss the sugar rush of our Monday through Friday breakfasts.

All of this can be summed up by the mantra of the time held in high esteem by Moms like mine: Do not let your family leave the house hungry. We were always filled with Milk, Juice, and something else to fill our bellies. No Stay-At-Home Mom ever wanted to hear that her children left for school without having eaten. I only remember breakfast of a sort being offered in the High School and never in the Junior High. Of course, most everyone went home for lunch in elementary school for a sandwich and milk. We also had a routine for a number of years where we would watch the TV show Jeopardy from 12:00 to 12:30 and then hightail it back to school. Good thing we lived next to Willard or our routine might have also included missing the Final Jeopardy answer.

Saturday Mail

Does anybody get excited about the arrival of mail any longer? If you are like me, the prospect of losing US Mail delivery on Saturday will probably only produce a yawn. It's not that I don't enjoy a letter from family or friends, it's just the custom is, to quote Shakespeare, "honored more in the breach than the observance."

I can clearly remember my freshmen year in college writing plenty of letters and receiving a goodly number in return. My high school pals and I were still feeling close even though the distances between us grew wider with each passing day.

I don't remember the exact date when mail became little more than magazines, catalogs, and bills but people mostly stopped using the US Mail for correspondence around the same time they discovered email. Bills have even stopped appearing at many homes with the advent of online bill paying. Catalogs still appear with regular frequency though nothing like the old Sears catalog in terms of size and the anticipation it used to produce in its recipients.

Even cards at Christmas time have seemingly become less important, too. I am as guilty as many folks are of writing only a short hello along with a happy holidays on our Christmas cards, which doesn't truly count as a letter in the traditional sense.

I suppose it is only a matter of time before Saturday mail delivery will be eliminated on economic grounds. There will no doubt be a flurry of mild protests and many short pieces on the evening news regarding the loss of this service, but in the end it won't matter much to people. We have become so used to the instantaneous communication of the Internet that the loss of snail mail delivery on Saturday won't leave much of a void in most people's lives. The only people who will miss it will be the postal workers themselves who might have been earning overtime by working or the part timers who only worked on Saturdays.

Sadly to say Saturday mail delivery is one of those quaint ideas which future generations will ponder for a moment and then get back to all their multiple channels of communication, which never shut down for holidays or are limited by the cessation of a Saturday delivery.

4th of July Fireworks

Times have changed a bit in terms of the size and scope of the annual Ridgewood 4th of July Fireworks show. The tickets cost $5 in advance and $10 the night of the show, with no refunds. There is also the unmistakable 21st century drama of a security search of your belongings as you enter Vets Field.

Admittedly, the show is bigger than it was in the 1960s and 70s and our society has become much more litigious, consequently the event is much less spontaneous and under a tighter control. I can recall leaving the parents who volunteered to drive the neighborhood kids to Vets and simply roaming around the perimeter of Vets and Graydon with my childhood pals. We simply had a grand old time looking at things out of their usual context, in this case at dusk, and only stopping when we heard the opening rounds of the fireworks presentation. We would then stop whatever we were doing and watch with wide eyed wonder at the explosions of the pyrotechnic devices. When the show was over and the final cries of wonder from the attending crowd had been uttered, we would find our adult supervisors for the ride back home. I have no idea who paid for the show in those days but we all got our money's worth and then some.

Charles Chips

During the late 1960s and early 1970s we used to receive home delivery of cans of Charles Chips. This economic model worked well until the mid-1970s when the price and availability of gas made it much less profitable than it had been previously. Though in its day the site of a Charles Chips truck in the neighborhood was a welcome site indeed. Besides the convenience of home delivery, the potato chips were good and could be easily transported around the house as needed. When we had friends over to visit the introduction of a Charles Chips can was always a pleasurable interruption to whatever we might be doing.

Today with far fewer people at home on a regular basis as housewives, and a greater reluctance to open the front door to strangers,  services like Charles Chips and the Fuller Brush Man are much harder to maintain than they once were in suburbs. There was also the Avon Lady who would visit on a regular basis and the man who sharpened knives. All the knife sharpener would do was pick a spot in the neighborhood and clang his bell in order to tell people to bring their knives and tools to be sharpened on his portable grind stone.

I guess the lack of these strangers in our suburban neighborhoods make them safer now, but it also makes them more homogeneous and a bit less interesting. It was a rare kid among us who didn't look forward to the site of a stranger invading the quiet of our neighborhood and stirring things up with their door bell ringing and bell clanging.  I sure know we looked forward to their visits when I was a kid. These people didn't scare us or annoy us in the least. At times we opened lemonade and candy stands to encourage them to stop, even if they had just lost they way on our side of town.

In those days we knew who belonged in our neighborhood and who didn't because people were less transient than they are now. Did we take chances when we momentarily allowed these strangers into our lives? Of course we did! This was part of the fun we used to have. It might have even helped fill in the gaps in our then limited life experience. The end result was that our eyes were being opened to the immense world around us, and it wasn't being done via TV or radio. It was being done close to home in our own neighborhood.

Early To Rise

For as long as I can remember I have risen early in the morning, sometimes as early as 5:30 AM during the summer months when we were off from school. This meant if nobody else was awake, usually the case, I would venture down to the coolest room in our home: the basement. Before we added central air conditioning in 1975, the basement could be relied upon as the one place we could go, that wasn't a swimming pool, to escape the heat. When it was too hot to be in the basement we would often rely upon an old standby and run through the sprinkler while it watered the lawn. Once we had been thoroughly soaked by the sprinkler we were game for more strenuous activities like a squirt gun fight or simply throwing balloons filled with water at each other.

When I was up and about early on those summer mornings my attention sometimes turned to what was on TV at that hour. Some channels were still running a test pattern until 6 AM but one of them had a cartoon show called Colonel Bleep, which I guess was supposed to get us accustomed to the forthcoming modern era of space travel. It was then followed by an early morning fixture called The Modern Farmer. I fully understood why they showed The Modern Farmer at such an early hour because farmers were people who generally woke even earlier than I did. What I didn't understand was why it was on at all, given that such a small percentage of people were classified as farmers and the information provided by the show was not anything these people didn't already know backwards and forwards. I knew that I lived in the Garden State and that we even had a working farm in Ridgewood into the late 1970s but the show always appeared incongruous with our suburban life style.

I will say that my ability to rise early did stand me in good stead when I went off to college and 8:00 AM classes were sometimes all that were left for Freshmen to choose from. They used to kid us that these classes were lessons in how to get up early that would come in handy when we found our first 9 to 5 job, which probably would require it.

Truth be told it was probably not TV which caused a life long habit of rising with the sun. It had more to do with the fact that I liked the sounds of the birds in the morning and the predictable sounds we used to hear at our house like the long, lonesome moan of a train whistle, or the clanging of cans by our garbageman. These sounds because they were so predictable and regular soothed me as I began my day. I have all these same sounds outside my window now here in Forest Hills, NY but they don't resonate with me in the same manner. I have certainly gotten used to them but these sounds are more shrill and faster paced. Nothing like the slow and easy pace we lived growing up in Ridgewood in the 1960s and 1970s.

Ridgewood Outdoors

This post courtesy of an old neighbor from the Willard School area, Jim Schoneman:

Yesterday was the first time I took a serious look at this facebook site ((Ridgewood Expats)) and in the last 24 hours my mind has been flooded with memories of my years growing up in Ridgewood. I started kindergarten at Willard in 1961 and graduated RHS in ’74. I haven’t seen a discussion topic talking about my most vivid memory of Ridgewood so I thought I’d start this one. I’m talking about the beautiful and rugged countryside that we lived in.

I spent lots and lots of times roaming the pockets of woods hunting with my homemade slingshots and fishing the Ho Ho Kus brook. The first fish I ever caught was at the duck pond. It was one of those big goldfish that some well intentioned but not so forward thinking soul decided to stock in the pond. Those goldfish ended up infesting the entire watershed. It was kind of funny because when they got into the streams you could see them from a mile away.

My favorite area was the Ho Ho Kus Brook behind Hoffman’s Pond. I’d ride my bike down to the horse farm and get to the stream by walking right through the horse farm property and using their gate to get to the woods behind the house. The woods were full of wild rhododendrons and oak trees and the ground was always covered with a thick blanket of oak leaves. It was never any problem to gather a couple dozen big, fat wiggler worms just by brushing away the leaves. Now, armed with our Zebcos and fully loaded with bait we’d walk down to the stream and fish. We’d fish off of the old wooden bridge. We’d fish the first dam and then walk down to Cole’s Pond and fish that. Then we’d fish the second dam (down by where the tennis club now is). Sometimes we’d fish the stream all the way down to the spillway in Ho Ho Kus. Lots of bluegills, bass and eels, plus the occasional rainbow trout. I’d throw the eels on my little brother. That was always fun. Sometimes we’d find a huge bullfrog and we’d dangle a bare hook in front of its mouth and he’d jump at it thinking it was a fly. Sounds cruel, but that’s what boys do.

My dad had told me that he had heard that the Ho Ho Kus Fire Chief made a deal with the state fisheries department to have a couple of giant trout planted in the stream by the Ho Ho Kus Fire Station. I tried fishing around that fire station fairly often and one day I hooked one of those monsters. I had him on for all of two seconds. He nearly ripped the pole right out of my hands.

I found my pet pigeon, Walter, under the steel high bridge in Ho Ho Kus. I was fishing the stream and there, sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream, was this little puffball. It was a baby pigeon only a couple weeks old that had fallen from his nest on the bridge. I took him home and after a while I taught him to fly (yes I did) and then let him go. The problem was that he didn’t want to leave, so I built him a nice cage where he could sleep at night and I'd let him out in the morning. He lived a grand life for about a year and a half, until he was hit by a car. Walter was famous in my neighborhood around Willard School. He’d fly up to the school and watch the kids play. My mom got called up there a few times to retrieve Walter because he’d land on the field in the middle of a soccer game or he’d sit on a windowsill looking in on a class. My mom, bless her heart, would walk up to the school and call for Walter and Walter would fly down and land on her head. Then she’d walk home with a pigeon on her head.

I’ve got so many more adventure stories that I could tell, like the time I took a bunch of my friends to crawl through that tunnel that led to The Hermitage (which was just an old, abandoned building back then). I got them scared pretty good in there.

Hope I didn’t overextend my welcome with this long post. I was just wondering if anyone else had memories of the beautiful countryside we were blessed to live in back then.

Does anyone remember hiking Devil’s Path?

That was a scary path to walk on. There was a bridge upstream from the first dam but someone burned it up. I remember fishing off of it one time and I caught a bluegill and as I was reeling it in a pickerel came out and took the bluegill. The funny thing about that was that the pickerel was hiding in a couch that someone had thrown in the stream. Since that time I've had lots of fish come and bite on a fish that I'm reeling in, but I can't say I've ever caught another fish that was hiding in a couch!

Where The Wild Things Are

One of the first books which I can remember being read to us by the librarians at Willard School is Maurice Sendek's 1963 children's picture book, Where The Wild Things Are. This is my earliest memory of being read to at school, my parents also did it quite a bit in our home. It shows to me that a love of reading is preferably encouraged at a young age by both parents and schools.

Today's children, if the news can be believed, are more likely to own a cell phone than a book. While I am a proponent of technology, and earn my living because of its ubiquity, I do find this report from the National Literacy Trust most disturbing. Here is more:

Almost nine-in-10 pupils now have a mobile phone compared with fewer than three-quarters who have their own books in the home, it was disclosed. The study by the National Literacy Trust suggested a link between regular access to books outside school and high test scores. According to figures, some 80 per cent of children with better than expected reading skills had their own books, compared with just 58 per cent who were below the level expected for their age group. The disclosure follows the publication of a study found that found keeping just 20 books in the home could boost children's chances of doing well at school.

It's hard to consider a future, or even a present, where school children have electronic gadgets and power adapters lining the bookshelves in their bedrooms, instead of having them lined with books. The books on my shelves, some of which have been with me for decades and were originally my father's, are a great source of comfort and inspiration. They contain the thoughts of the best and brightest minds and demand to be re-examined for their relevance by each successive generation. I can't think of a single cell phone, or electronic device which will produce the same feelings of attachment that books can or which can act as touchstones like books or poems. We tend to dispose of our electronic devices rather quickly and only retain small amounts of nostalgia regarding them. These feelings are dwarfed by those generated by a reading, or re-reading of the plays or sonnets of Shakespeare or one of the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson or a poem of William Butler Yeats. We will keep these authors and poets with us, if we are smart, long after we discard our old computers, cell phones, and TV sets. I just can't imagine it being any other way. The thought of no books is truly a place to me "where the wild things are" and not one I imagine would do much for a child's development into an adult.

Longer Days

It was always at this time of the year, late May, when the days grew longer, that the likelihood of having to do homework when there was still light outside began to increase slowly but surely. The afternoons were full of promise, 60 and 70 degree temperatures, so homework was rarely given a second thought. When dinner time came around we all retreated from the schoolyard and went our separate ways. Though the sun had other ideas. It would still be shining, as if to taunt us to linger a little longer and let our dinners wait. After dinner the call of the outdoors was just as strong and we might make up some reason to go outside for a moment or two. The homework would get done we would tell our parents, it just wouldn't get started until after 8:00 PM. By that time the sun would be down and the temptation to procrastinate would have abated, at least until the next day. Then we might be faced once again with another glorious late May day with all its inherent wonder and the pernicious ability to delay school age children from completing their homework by the usual time.

8.8.8.8 and 8.8.4.4

Official Google Blog: Introducing Google Public DNS



The Internet for people who are both curious and technically inclined is a wonderful invention. It doesn't demand that you possess either of these traits in vast quantities for it to be a source of inspiration and delight, but it does help.

I found this link concerning a project to improve the Domain Name System (DNS) via an ordinary afternoon of checking my Social Networking links. It was technical and it also made me curious because it was being spearheaded by Paul Chisholm, an old neighbor and member of the RHS Class of 1975.

Now the combination of a project to make The Internet more responsive and the fact it was being led by somebody from the old neighborhood around Willard peaked my interest so much that I have joined the project in a tangential manner by changing my DNS settings to 8.8.8.8.

Why does this matter? According to Google:

"The DNS protocol is an important part of the web's infrastructure, serving as the Internet's phone book: every time you visit a website, your computer performs a DNS lookup. Complex pages often require multiple DNS lookups before they start loading, so your computer may be performing hundreds of lookups a day."

In non-technical terms: it will speed up your browser and make your time spent on The Internet a bit more secure.

All I know is that it appears to be working for my browser and I am always looking to add additional layers of security protection to my computing environment. I hope the project goes well and that one day Paul Chisholm will be recognized by Ridgewood High School for his efforts and place a picture of him on their wall of Distinguished Alumni.

Van Neste Park

This photo is used with the permission of Sam Fran Scavuzzo. He is editor of The Ridgewood Patch.

The Patch.org Foundation was formed in March, 2010 to improve the quality of life in underserved communities across the globe through access to trusted local news and information.

The above photo contains the names of the stewards in the Village of Ridgewood who banded together in the early 1990s to renovate Van Neste Park. To say they helped restore it to its previous glory would be to do them a disservice, because they made lasting contributions to the overall beauty of the park so that generations to come would be able to continue to enjoy its simple pleasures. What's more, they accepted contributions from the community and in turn used the money so that visitors would long remember who were the benefactors of the park.

The Van Neste Park renovation was the sort of civic project which are harder than ever today to organize and carry out with the aplomb these folks did. It didn't surprise me at all when I first saw their completed efforts because the committee contained members who had watched over me during all the years I lived in Ridgewood. People like Marion Barnett, Jack Bennett, and Bill Kuipers were my neighbors and they and their spouses were the sort of folks who took pride in the idea that we all have civic responsibilities as residents of a town like Ridgewood. The Van Neste Park project was easily their best work and I'm glad they weren't too modest to have their names engraved on a commemorative stone placed centrally in the park. The stone is a simple reminder of the social forces which bind us together as a community, and what better place than in the tranquil setting of Van Neste Park.

Wondering Aloud

I wonder aloud very often in this blog about who I was many years ago. It's probably closer to the truth to say I wonder about who I am today in light of how I remember growing up in Ridgewood in the 1960s and 70s.

This kind of reflection is not unusual for someone in their early 50 such as I am now. We are all such experts in the particulars of our circumstances that I would be remiss if I couldn't offer some bit of expertise for posterity.

I readily admit to having paid attention while growing up in Ridgewood. I had all the basics provided for me by my family which allowed for a careful observation of the shared values and beliefs of those living in Ridgewood at the time. Not to mention I was lucky enough to live in the same home throughout my K-12 school years. It wasn't until we moved away from Ridgewood that I understood the wisdom of having a homestead where well worn rituals are acted out and their significance is regularly reinforced by proximity.

This is all fairly commonsensical and I am sure many other people have concluded as I have that a vagabound life is in many ways inferior to one which is more physically and emotionally grounded. Though at the time of one's graduation from high school the world looks bright and promising. We are told to go explore and see for ourselves the places we have been only reading about for years. This is accepted as being the wise thing to do and most everyone follows this path to a more or less extent.

I wonder how it would have been if I had followed a time honored custom and had chosen to live close to my parents in the same town, or had bought their home when they decided to retire? Ridgewood taxes and expenses make this a fantasy for most people, and a scant few folks spend time away then move back. It's sorta sad that is how the town has evolved because we lose so much that can never be restored when we uproot ourselves and seek fame and fortune elsewhere.

The question I wonder about is whether the loss of shared values and a sense of community that we discard upon graduation day is more often than not returned to us in kind by the life styles we later lead and the communities we help grow and promote?

I have no conclusive answer to leave you with. All I can say is that with each successive post I appear to myself in a somewhat clearer focus, as paradoxical as that might sound. Even though with each passing moment I move further away from the fond moments I am trying to remember. My hope is to be able to continue with my recollections about a time long gone, the thought-filled wondering, and what it all means to me today.

Wildlife Around Willard School in the 1960s

While the area commonly known as Upper Ridgewood was filling up its empty lots with house all through the 1960s, one area close to me remained in a somewhat "natural" state. I'm referring to the border to my backyard which abutted the Willard School playground. This area in the mid-1960s, before what was called the "New Wing" was constructed, was filled with wild berry bushes along one of its fences. One year my Mom actually made a jam out of these berries before the birds were able to strip the bushes clean. There was also a tall apple tree which we used to climb up and build tree forts on its branches. The apples it produced weren't much good for eating but they did come in handy during the occasional apple fight between rival grades of kids.

I can also recall us once or twice using this area to plant gardens of flowers, in particular, Sunflowers. These were the first Sunflower plants I had ever seen and I marveled at their enormous size and was flabbergasted when I was told that we were going to eat the seeds.

This small, bucolic setting was vanquished from the seen when the construction began on the New Wing for Willard School. They needed some place to pile the dirt and that meant clearing away all the undergrowth and inadvertently ripping out the wild berry bushes. The funny thing in hindsight was that they left the overgrown apple tree. They trimmed its branches so we couldn't climb it anymore but left the source of ammunition for our apple fights largely intact.

Today all my youthful memories are gone and a state-of-the-art playground resides in its stead. I suppose this is progress but I wonder where the children today find their own bits of nature to admire and be amazed about? The equipment is nice and safe but I'll be able to recall the wonder of homemade jam from our backyard wild berries, as well as roasted sunflower seeds from our makeshift garden, long after they have outgrown the shiny new swing set and the new jungle gym. These replaced the small patch of wildlife which was a normal part of my growing up and one I wish the children attending Willard today would have been given a chance to experience for themselves.

Tending The Roses

Our backyard was small by Ridgewood standards. It was separated from the Willard School playground by a tall privet hedge, a 4 foot high wire fence and a gate which allowed us to come and go to school.

Inside the backyard was a small patch of grass for the boys to cut, a variety of annuals, perennials, and the roses. These roses were my Dad's domain completely and you didn't want to be around when he was spraying for bugs because the smell was awful.

One rose was given to us by an old friend and was forever known as the Cloukey Rose. It bloomed happily for many years in our backyard and when we moved to Hilton Head Island the Cloukey rose made the trip, too. It was later joined there by a dozen roses I purchased from the mail-order nursery Jackson and Perkins. My Dad continued to spray and trim all these roses just like in Ridgewood and, no surprise, they all thrived.

Then one day in late 1987 my Dad decided to buy a "Gentlemen's Farm" in Ashville, NC.
The plan was to keep the place in Hilton Head until they decided which one they liked better. This left the question of the roses and where the Cloukey rose in particular should reside. A quick decision was made and all the roses were uprooted and bundled up in the back of our Red Pickup truck for the move to what we called the "Branchwater Farm." If you surmised that the roses thrived at Branchwater Farm then you are correct.

Sadly, when we sold the farm 7 years later and re-settled on Hilton Head all the roses were left behind for the new owners, even the venerable Cloukey. I guess my Dad thought he was leaving them in good hands and with someone who would care and look after them like he had for so many years.

A quick trip back to the area the following year disabused him of this idea pretty quickly. All our old neighbor could say about the new owner was that he was a "horse person" and didn't care much about growing things. In addition to letting the roses die from lack of water, he had paid someone to chop down all the Christmas trees we had planted on one of the hillsides. These trees were just left where they lay for the longest time until he finally paid someone to clear them away.

The lesson learned by our family was that it takes quite a bit of effort to properly tend to roses and if you don't have the foresight to appreciate the beautiful flowers they will produce each year then you really have no business working in a garden at all.

Making Time For Old Friends

     How do we make time in our lives for old friends? The question is not "do we make time" it's more a matter of how and when we re-connect with those who knew us when we were younger. It is not something we can shirk without leaving ourselves open to experiencing feelings of loneliness and regret. The loneliness is obvious but it is the regrets we feel which are usually less well understood and tend to linger far longer than they might.

       When we gather with old friends we invariably recollect and tell of past experiences. This act in and of itself offers a way of providing "perspective" on the problems of the present. This indulging in memories and attempts to recapture the past become habits, if we are lucky, as we grow older. Though as youngsters the site of my parents and their friends sitting outside around a picnic table well past dark in the summertime, long after a the coals from the BBQ had become embers, always made me wonder what they were doing. Their usual response was that they were talking. For someone as active as myself I couldn't fathom what they could talk about for so long and why they wouldn't instead want to join us for some late night discovery of the neighborhood or the schoolyard next door. All they would say was that I would understand when I was older. Now that the time they sagely predicted has arrived, and age has shown me the wisdom I couldn't fathom as a child, what they were doing makes perfect sense to me now. There is truly nothing I like better than to gather with old friends to reminisce. I take a special pleasure these days when the age old question presents itself as to what we adults are doing. I am now able to tell the inquisitive child who might dare ask of our doings, "that we are talking." These same kids who casually enter into and leave our conversations quite like busboys at a restaurant now give me the same quizzical look I gave my parents. Hopefully, they will remember these nights and pass this bit of wisdom down to their children. More importantly, I hope they see the intelligence and the possibility for creativity which a gathering of old friends provides to all the participants. I trust they will achieve this insight and understand the transformational power that goes along with finding time in our lives for old friends.

Working From Home

     My Dad used to bring home work on the weekends sometimes so he could work from home in his study. He was a decent typist but sometimes would rely upon my Mom who was a professional secretary before she was married and never lost the touch.

      Today the term "working from home" has an old fashioned attractiveness to it for someone who doesn't understand our always connected work world. Now we can have calls, emails, and faxes at all hours of the day and night. My Dad was a solitary worker on those weekends and rarely would have had a colleague or client call to confer about something.

      Which is the more civilized life style: one where you literally go to work or one where you are always with your work? Hard to say because the commute my Dad had to his 40 Wall Street office was fairly brutal when you consider he had to walk to the train then take a subway and finally walk to the office. It was just under 3 hours round trip and more if the weather was bad. When you work at home during a snow storm or transit strike there are still plenty of ways to contribute even if you miss a few face-to-face meetings with the boss or client. It just didn't happen like that in the old days. What's more, if there was a major blackout like the one we had in the mid 1960s in NYC you might spend the night at the office like my Dad and his colleagues did. The funny thing in retrospect about "The Blackout" was the rotary phones worked. They were powered by the Phone Company telephone cables but everything else was not connected via dedicated lines in this manner. All we had were a supply of candles and the faint hope that all the food in the refrigerator wouldn't spoil.

      In today's world of VoIP (Internet-based Phone service) when the power goes out, even just in your home, one quickly discovers that if you rely upon the cable company you won't have a dial tone. Of course, you will still have your cell phone as long as you can keep it charged and the people you want to speak with do the same. Again, another trade-off and who is to say which is the better way to live?

      If my preference counts for anything then I guess working from home now is better than working from home for my parent's generation. I think the tremendous amount of time we waste in office politics tips the scale in favor of home offices. Work is hard enough but if you have to listen to the griping of disgruntled co-workers, smell their lunches boiling away in the microwaves, and have to pretend like you are working when you really aren't, then you are truly better off at home with email and cell phones.

      What this all means is that the solitary weekend worker of the 1960s and 70s, who had few distractions, has been replaced by the solitary, multitasking worker who is distracted wherever Internet and cell phone coverage is available. The drive for career success is the same in both eras, but the modern day distractions dictated by the exigencies of many a career are starkly different and take some getting used to. One day I hope to master these modern demands, if possible, and be able to maintain a calm like those slow but steady rat-ta-tat-tat sounds produced by my Dad's old Underwood typewriter on a Sunday afternoon.

Wheat Back Pennies

     For as long as I can remember my brothers and I collected coins. My Dad's Mom got us started at a young age with Lincoln Head Set Penny Collections and later with Jefferson Nickels and "Mercury" Head Dimes.

      I still have all my collections though I confess to not being very diligent these days in keeping them up to date, with one exception: the Lincoln Wheat Cent or Wheatie as we used to call them. They turn up every once and a while in my change and each night as I empty my pockets I check for Wheaties. It's a habit I suppose and the kind of gentle reminder of simpler days which I appreciate. Probably this thrifty habit is in my Scottish DNA and just can't be helped. To tell the truth I am actually glad for it because it keeps me conscious of how hard it is to earn money, let alone save it. I don't consider it cheapness but only an awareness of the consequences of not having a tidy sum in reserve. I pity people who call themselves "cheapskates" because they tend to feel guilty all too often regarding some of life's pleasures, especially those which are worth paying a premium for. A nice meal in a NYC restaurant with friends who appreciate fine dining comes to mind as an indulgence which I budget for and enjoy no end.

      We all have our own pecuniary habits. For me, all it takes is the site of a Wheatie to make me become conscious of the origins of how I first learned about money. Admittedly, my subsequent uses of money might not have always been as prudent as collecting coins in Whitman Publishing coin folders. Though I did manage to save the original books and their insights are part of my wakefulness and dictate my usual response to a penny laying on the sidewalk. Without a hesitation I grab it before some other thrifty guy like me to come along and beats me to it. One never knows where they might find a Wheatie to add to their collection.

Vote For Preserving Graydon

      This blog endorses Bernadette Coghlan-Walsh and Thomas M. Riche for Ridgewood Town Council. The election is Tuesday May 11th and the voting booths will be open from 6:00AM to 8:00PM.

      There are four reasons to support keeping a sandy bottom at Graydon Pool. These can be summarized based upon Geology, Economics, Aesthetics, and the Law.

1. Geology: Ridgewood is built on a floodplain. Graydon has always been a huge storage area for flood waters. It must be kept free of encroachments that might block flood flows or restrict storage of flood waters. The concrete pool supporters either don't understand, because they haven't lived in Ridgewood long enough to see a flood, or it's something they are hoping they will never live to see.


2. Economics: The current configuration of Graydon is not making enough money to be self-supporting. To believe that a concrete bottom design would make money stretches the realms of credibility. Where are the paying customers going to come from? How high can badge fees be raised in a Recession to support the bonds needed to build a concrete pool?

3. Aesthetics: Graydon is a beautifully designed, tranquil setting in an otherwise bustling little community. Hard to see how the concrete proposal would improve upon this natural oasis that has been enjoyed for generations.

4. Law: While I am not a lawyer I do know that the land on which Graydon sits was willed to the Village of Ridgewood. There will no doubt be a legal challenge to any proposal which tries to change the intent of the original will that Graydon be a park. We might as well save ourselves time and money because both sides on this issue can afford the lawyers to keep this one in the courts for a long time.

ZIP Codes

      It's hard to remember a time when we didn't need ZIP codes on our letters and packages. Though I dare say it compares with the 19th century creation of the Dewey Decimal System as one of the 20th century's best ideas for organizing the job of delivery into a specific and repeatable process. The ZIP will be in use long into this century as it is now translated into what is called Postnet and printed on mailpieces for use by automated sorting machines. Some further history from our pals at Wikipedia:

     The ZIP code is the system of postal codes used by the United States Postal Service (USPS) since 1963. The letters ZIP, an acronym for Zone Improvement Plan. In 1967, these were made mandatory for second- and third-class bulk mailers, and the system was soon adopted generally.

       My hunch is that most people who grew up in Ridgewood still remember the village's ZIP codes as 07450. Though given the transient nature of people now I suspect these same folks would be hard pressed to name all the other towns ZIP codes they have lived in. For myself, I can remember my college town's ZIP and the one we had when we had a home on Hilton Head Island. All the rest of my way stops have long ago been erased from my memory or were changed to make any memory of them superfluous.

Stuff We Wished We Had Kept

     Everyone has some possession from their youth which they wished they had kept for posterity. The classic one for guys from the 1960s and 1970s would be their baseball cards. These were items which were purchased five cards to a pack at places like the Corner Store for a nickel and included a stick of gum. I actually still have some of these cards and have been giving them away as gifts for years now. I have encased each one in a plastic holder so they maintain their shape and value. Lucky for me these cards give me the same joy whether I still possess them or not. There is something about knowing you have given someone a good gift that stays with you forever. 

       One thing I didn't save even though I carried them around for years were my record albums. I started collecting them in 1973. My first purchases were Paul Simon's There Goes Rhymin' Simon, The Allman Brothers' Brothers and Sisters, Grand Funk's We're An American Band, and Don McLean's American Pie. They all made it into the 21st century even though I had nothing to play them on but didn't survive my last move into New York City in 2002. It makes me slightly nostalgic now to see turntables for LPs with USB connections, but the site of these modern marvels don't cause me any regrets. The albums served their purpose and were mostly dust collectors in the end, many were warped and scratched. The artwork on the album covers themselves was the last redeeming feature these old LPs possessed.


     I suppose I am not much of a hoarder or else I would be able to rattle off more stuff that I did keep. A quick look around my office and I spy the first Bible given to me by the Upper Ridgewood Community Church, my high school Yearbook, some photo albums, and a Sportsman flashlight. They are all next to one another on a shelf, as if to neatly remind me of stuff I'm glad I kept.

The Search For Meaning

     As of late when I have had time to ponder my roots I've been using an old copy of the Ridgewood Yellow Book, circa 1975 as a point of reference. It's a little more than 400 pages and contains both the Yellow and White pages of this era and includes the towns of Glen Rock, Ho-Ho-Kus, Franklin Lakes, Waldwick, Saddle River, Midland Park, and Wyckoff. I somehow doubt this same feat could be accomplished today in 400 pages, and I also think people are so programmed to use the Internet that even possessing a Yellow Pages means you like doing things the old fashioned way or don't feel comfortable using the Internet. I consider myself old fashion in some ways but I don't let phone books gather dust in my home any longer.

      While it is true most of the names in my reference have become irrelevant over time there are a surprising number of names I find that still live in the same place some 35 years later.  It makes me feel good to look again at numbers that I once knew by heart because I had dialed them so often. The Warner Theatre, by the way, is still 444-1234.

      My Yellow Book is filled with reminders of how it pays to advertise. Back in 1975 it was taken as a matter of course that a business would take out an ad in the Yellow Pages. Now this is not a certainty, and given the number of different Yellow Books available a potentially costly exercise in Marketing.

      I'd say the biggest difference, besides the overall size, is what wasn't being advertised in 1975 that we now come to expect. By this I mean there are only a hand full of restaurants, and Mama Rosa's Pizza and Renatos are the only two familiar names remaining. The other surprising thing was the number of gas stations which were located in the center of town. Now you have one or two service stations, if my memory serves, and more restaurants than you could possible patronize in a month or two. Though in the case of restaurants we live in an age of eating out so I'm sure some people could probably cover the gamut a bit faster than I'm suggesting.

Storytelling

     It's been said that storytelling is the best protection against forgetting. In our digital age where Google forgets nothing the stories and notices posted to this blog will likely last as long as we do as a civilization. This daunting idea actually inspires me to make the postings as meaningful as I can given the limitations of time and my talents. I may not hit the mark every time but my modest efforts do give me some satisfaction and occasionally hit their mark in ways I can't predict but appreciate just the same. 

      The most recent example was the sharing of my memories of shopping at Perdue's Sport Shop and posting it the same morning on which Walt Perdue passed away quietly in Anna Maria, Florida. It was only the next day when his daughter emailed me that I learned the connection between the events. I was glad they had been able to find and read my story during their time of sorrow, if only to take their minds off their grieving for a moment and to let their thoughts linger around a more cheerful set of circumstances. Maybe all the future postings here won't resonate so loudly in people's hearts and minds, but that will be the aim. I trust that people will let me know when something written here touches their heart or peaks their interest. The stories I collect here are important enough to reside on the Internet for eternity.  I just hope they can accurately depict the people and places which prompted me to write them down in the first place.

RIP Jack Elwood

     Jack Elwood was both my Driver's Education Instructor and my Track Coach. The lessons he taught me regarding driving I still employ today and for those techniques I am grateful to him.  Here is a video shot during the 5K Walk/Run they held in his honor in 2007:

 


Here is the obituary:

Jack Elwood, a much-loved Ridgewood High School (RHS) physical education teacher battling Lou Gehrig’s disease, died on Sunday. He was 59.
Students at Ridgewood High School observed a moment of silence on Monday morning after Elwood’s death was announced.
In May 2003, Elwood was diagnosed with Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a fatal neuromuscular disease that causes progressive muscle weakness, eventually leading to paralysis. RHS students, coworkers, friends and family held numerous fund-raisers in recent years to help the teacher and his family, including the well-attended annual Jack Elwood 5K Walk/Run. One of the initial fund-raisers was to build a wheelchair ramp at his home in Oakland.
Elwood, who also was assistant manager at Graydon Pool during the summer months, initially remained teaching at RHS in the early stages of the disease, using a wheelchair. At one of the early fund-raisers, Elwood told the crowd that he and his family were overwhelmed by the community’s support.
"More than [the money], it’s your goodwill, the prayers and constant attention that I get. I can’t walk down the hall a day without someone asking me how I’m doing," he said at the event.
Elwood is survived by his wife, Laura, and daughter Tricia.
Visitation will be held at Feeney Funeral Home in Ridgewood on Tuesday, May 4 from 7 to 9 p.m. and Wednesday, May 5 from 2 to 4 and 7 to 9 p.m. A Funeral Mass will be celebrated at 10 a.m. Thursday, May 6 at St. Luke’s R.C. Church in Ho-Ho-Kus.

Here is a Facebook page which was created to honor Jack Elwood.

Perdue's Sport Shop

     The advertisement in the Yellow Pages I possess (circa September 1975) states the Perdue's Sport Shop, besides being Bergen's oldest Pro Shop, was also the place you could buy fishing gear, guns, and ammo. I only mention this because we did patronize Walt Perdue's shop and did in fact buy our guns and ammo from him. Not sure if a store like this still exists in Ridgewood but it wouldn't surprise if they didn't sell guns over at Bernard's, the folks who bought the Perdue name and business a while back. The guns in question were mostly BB guns and one rifle which my older brother and father used to take to the Ridgewood Rifle Club over at 209 Chestnut street.

      We also used to go to Perdue's for the different color baseball caps and iron on letters we required for whatever baseball team we were playing for in the RBA (Ridgewood Baseball Association) Spring league.  

      Perdue's was also famous for the old time car, I believe a Model A which was always parked in front of Perdue's store. Mr Perdue used to drive it in the 4th of July Parade and I believe used it to commute to work. The White Pages of the phone book I am consulting says he lived on Glen Avenue so he didn't have much of a commute. More than likely there wasn't much chance he was going to get stuck in traffic or have to drive the highway. I dare say most men in the community who took the train or bus to work would have gladly swapped rides with him anytime.

      Update 4 May 2010
      This is taken from the tribute paid to Walt Perdue as a member of the RHS Athletic Hall of Fame:

Walt Perdue - Class of 1949

The four-sport athlete was an all-state running back and team co-captain his senior year season when the Maroons had a 6-3 record. He also played defensive back. Perdue capped his career by accounting for 207 of Ridgewood’s 302 yards gained (including two runs of over 60 yards) in the 32-6 Thanksgiving Day victory over Fair Lawn. He scored three touchdowns in the Lodi win.

Perdue played basketball three years, earned two varsity letters in track and one in baseball. He was awarded the RHS Award for Excellence in Athletics in 1949 and also the 18th annual High Y Award. He was offered several scholarships. He sandwiched a stint in the Marine Corps in his college years at Lehigh, playing football in college. He owned Perdue’s Sport Shop in Ridgewood for a number of years.

Bill Lyons Campus Shoe Store

     The first thing you saw when you walked into the Bill Lyons Campus Shoe Store on East Ridgewood Avenue was the fish tank. It was strategically placed, I believe, to grab child's attention while their mother had a chance to check the styles and prices of shoes available. This was another of those old time Ridgewood stores where they recognized you when you came in and they would gladly send you a bill at the end of the month for your day's purchases. No credit cards in this establishment that I can recall. There existed a trust between the proprietor and his customers that extended in my case through my high school years when I could walk in without my mother and still be able to charge a pair of shoes no questions asked. This type of service is long gone in most towns like Ridgewood, sacrificed in order to keep costs under control to compete with the big retailers in the mails. Customer service is expensive to maintain and takes a long time to establish. When you are competing with companies which employ people with little training and at low wages the store proprietor whose motto is "Where Fit Is Important" is at an extreme disadvantage. It is one of Life's ironies: we all like low prices and we all like prompt and courteous customer service, but the two do not always go hand in hand. It takes a skilled retailer who can unabashed tell a customer how the price reflects the value being added by their interaction with store employees. If you add in the ability to shop on the Internet you have an even harder time convincing someone that face-to-face customer service isn't a relic from the previous century.

Mac Hughs Inc. Clothing Store

      A rite of each school year while growing up was a trip to Mac Hughs to buy some new cloths to replace the previous year's school cloths which were either too small or in disrepair. First the Mac Hugh store was in downtown Ridgewood and later they would build their own much larger location across from the Duck Pond. The amazing part were the salesmen who would remember us by face and welcome us back each year. It was even possible to develop favorites among the salesmen since these guys remained at their jobs year in and year out. This was my introduction to what "Customer Service" is all about and to this day Mac Hughs remains a touchstone which I use to discern the relative merit of whatever establishment I patronize. Very few have ever come close to the professionalism and civility which used to be offered by Mac Hughs.

      As times changed and I moved away from Ridgewood my taste in clothing changed to Brooks Brothers and I never returned to Mac Hughs. It's a shame because as I have subsequently learned through experience it is worth the time and effort to go out of your way to receive the kind of attention which the guys at Mac Hughs used to lavish on us. This is true for most things but especially important when it comes to a sense of style in clothing.

      And who can forget the Lucky Bucks we received with each purchase? These could be traded in for various build-them-yourself model kits of cars, boats, and aircraft. Mac Hughs was certainly ahead of its time in knowing that if they could convince children to shop at Mac Hughs by simply rewarding them with the modern day equivalent of the McDonald's Happy Meal, they would build a thriving business via the repeat customers. It certainly worked for a good long time and last I heard the owners retired to Vermont. The Mac Hughs building is now a bank with offices for rent, where kids once used to try on the latest cloths and Lucky Bucks were the coin of the realm.